DJ (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
djsoliloquy) wrote2010-01-11 04:09 pm
djsoliloquy) wrote2010-01-11 04:09 pm
Entry tags:
[fic] A Love Song for You
Title: A Love Song for You
Length: ~1,000
Originally posted: @![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
russiamerica for the CMC event back in October.
Characters: Russia/America, guest appearances by England, Denmark, France, others.
Rating: PG-13, for language, kisses, England's imaginative similes.
Summary: Written for the prompt cockblocked. And when I think cockblocked I think Simon Cowell, if that gives you an idea.
+++
Footsteps echo in the darkness.
A light shines down from above, illuminating a dusty spot on the unmarked expanse of black floor. Russia stands in the island of light. He peers out into the gloom that is thick and heavy as new black velvet. Tangible. The blackness breathes. It is not the void, but it is staring back. Russia returns the look, waiting for it to blink.
The footsteps become louder and America appears, surfacing from the there to the here under the one beam of light. He does not appear surprised to be here, but neither of them does.
“Hey.” The word resonates like the footsteps, rippling sound through the shadows. The darkness is not as thick as it seems. “You’re here.”
Russia nods. They have had this conversation before, and he is prepared for it. Verse, chorus, verse, and they both know how it ends. Everyone does. They have never actually done the ending but they still know, somehow, inexplicably, that it ends with a bang.
They both know how it ends. It begins as a dance, with America turning to stand next to him, and they face the darkness and the darkness stares back, and one of them will ask which End? and the other will say don’t be a smartass—
But that isn’t what America does this time.
A hand holds to Russia’s arm and turns him, and suddenly they are holding each other. They sway together gently, almost like they really are dancing. “I hope you don’t mind,” America says against Russia’s lips, and Russia’s heart flutters in surprise because that's different, this is very different, not how it usually—how he’s used to it—and America is pressing kisses into his skin between words, whispering, “I hope you don’t mind…”
“This is rather bad,” says the darkness abruptly.
“Stop talking,” it adds a moment later, in a different voice.
Russia holds his breath, blinks, and he feels America doing the same. So America heard it as well. Their arms tighten around each other, bracing against the darkness, and they frown. They listen and wait.
“Wise men say,” Russia prompts in the silence, “only fools rush in.”
America relaxes against him. “My foolish heart,” he says, rolling his eyes, the light glittering delicate gold through his eyelashes. Their foreheads touch. “It won’t believe we’re through.”
“When somebody loves you it’s no good unless he loves you all the way.” Fingers unbutton his coat, reach inside, feeling over his chest. A foot shifts forward, between his legs. He hisses, and blinks, trying to find his own footing in this, all of it—
“And I’m gonna love you like nobody’s loved you,” America croons, “come rain or come shine. I know it's not much, but it's the best I can do.” He urges forward with his thigh, persuading the soft moan from Russia’s throat. “My gift is my song…”
“—rather bad,” the darkness amends. The sound of papers shuffling, a pen scrawling in cursive. “My God, I think it’s actually getting worse? Incredible, by which I mean terrible. Extraordinarily bad. Absolutely horrible. It sounded like a cat jumping off the Empire State building. Into a tragically placed food processor, if I'm any judge. Which I am.”
America raises his head mid-kiss from Russia’s jaw and shouts out, “Are you fucking kidding me? We’re in the middle of something here!”
A groan from somewhere. “Give me some light!”
The spots in Russia’s vision clear to the darkness evaporated, leaving behind a vast auditorium. They are on the stage, and at the foot of the stage sitting behind a table are Denmark, France, and England.
“What the fuck,” America says, and he and Russia look at each other and disengage, standing several steps apart with their hands stuffed in their pockets.
Denmark claps big and loud for them. It sounds pitiable and empty in the awed silence of the auditorium. “That was awesome! Stuff of legend! Inspirational!”
“Yes, I liked it,” France says, head lolling onto his arms on the table. He casts a scheming glance at England. “I thought it was nice. Very heart-felt.”
England, in turn, covers his face in disgust. “This is exactly why no one listens to you. You’re a backstabbing pornographer who thinks beheadings are nice if they sparkle enough.”
Denmark looks down the table, grinning. “What about me? Do me next?”
“Do not even get me started on you.”
“What the fuck,” America shouts as he marches downstage, “are you three doing?”
"Judging," England says, at the same time Denmark and France say, "Cockblocking."
Russia looks at the floor. The gigantic pit is also black, like the stage, and it does not appear that America has noticed it. “America,” Russia warns, but America waves him off. “I do not think you should—”
At that moment something thin and white spears between America’s feet, and Austria curves out of the pit like a scorpion. “Unless you wish to be run through by a baton, I suggest you watch where you are stepping!”
America careens backward into Russia. “Jesus, they’re coming out of the floor!”
“How many of you are out there watching?” Russia says curiously, as he props America into a standing position.
The panel of judges whisper to each other. “A hundredish?” Denmark says. “Not everyone could make it, but we have sound crews and stage crews and light crews and set designers and—”
Austria hooks an arm over the edge of the orchestra pit and looks out. “While that's all very fascinating, what exactly is the cause for these delays? All the strings escaped an hour ago when we ran out of snacks and we had to block the exit with the tuba to keep anyone else from deserting. So sorry,” he says, smiling thinly at America and Russia. “I do hope brass fanfare with timpani accompaniment is to your taste.”
“Which is the most romantic sound in the universe anyway,” says what is possibly Prussia somewhere beneath their feet.
“Well, I don’t want them to continue,” England says. He sniffs and fold his arms across his chest. “It was terrible. Artless, bland, over-done to say the least. Not at all convincing.”
“Because I wasn’t acting,” America says. “Imagine that.”
England glares. “It still made me fairly sick watching it. Like witnessing a train wreck. Like witnessing the train run over the cat who threw himself off the building.”
“It wasn’t that bad,” says France, trying to hide a giggle.
“You bastard, you’re only saying that because I said I didn’t like it!”
The lights flicker and turn off. Completely off, plunging them into darkness with not even the single ray of light on the stage.
“OOPS,” booms a magnified voice from the overhead speakers. “VE, SORRY! WE ARE EXPERIENCING TECHNICAL DIFFICULTIES!”
In the darkness, Russia feels America’s hand reach for his. “This is what we get for not ending with a bang,” America says into his ear, and even so, Russia smiles.
--
-
Length: ~1,000
Originally posted: @
russiamerica for the CMC event back in October.Characters: Russia/America, guest appearances by England, Denmark, France, others.
Rating: PG-13, for language, kisses, England's imaginative similes.
Summary: Written for the prompt cockblocked. And when I think cockblocked I think Simon Cowell, if that gives you an idea.
+++
Footsteps echo in the darkness.
A light shines down from above, illuminating a dusty spot on the unmarked expanse of black floor. Russia stands in the island of light. He peers out into the gloom that is thick and heavy as new black velvet. Tangible. The blackness breathes. It is not the void, but it is staring back. Russia returns the look, waiting for it to blink.
The footsteps become louder and America appears, surfacing from the there to the here under the one beam of light. He does not appear surprised to be here, but neither of them does.
“Hey.” The word resonates like the footsteps, rippling sound through the shadows. The darkness is not as thick as it seems. “You’re here.”
Russia nods. They have had this conversation before, and he is prepared for it. Verse, chorus, verse, and they both know how it ends. Everyone does. They have never actually done the ending but they still know, somehow, inexplicably, that it ends with a bang.
They both know how it ends. It begins as a dance, with America turning to stand next to him, and they face the darkness and the darkness stares back, and one of them will ask which End? and the other will say don’t be a smartass—
But that isn’t what America does this time.
A hand holds to Russia’s arm and turns him, and suddenly they are holding each other. They sway together gently, almost like they really are dancing. “I hope you don’t mind,” America says against Russia’s lips, and Russia’s heart flutters in surprise because that's different, this is very different, not how it usually—how he’s used to it—and America is pressing kisses into his skin between words, whispering, “I hope you don’t mind…”
“This is rather bad,” says the darkness abruptly.
“Stop talking,” it adds a moment later, in a different voice.
Russia holds his breath, blinks, and he feels America doing the same. So America heard it as well. Their arms tighten around each other, bracing against the darkness, and they frown. They listen and wait.
“Wise men say,” Russia prompts in the silence, “only fools rush in.”
America relaxes against him. “My foolish heart,” he says, rolling his eyes, the light glittering delicate gold through his eyelashes. Their foreheads touch. “It won’t believe we’re through.”
“When somebody loves you it’s no good unless he loves you all the way.” Fingers unbutton his coat, reach inside, feeling over his chest. A foot shifts forward, between his legs. He hisses, and blinks, trying to find his own footing in this, all of it—
“And I’m gonna love you like nobody’s loved you,” America croons, “come rain or come shine. I know it's not much, but it's the best I can do.” He urges forward with his thigh, persuading the soft moan from Russia’s throat. “My gift is my song…”
“—rather bad,” the darkness amends. The sound of papers shuffling, a pen scrawling in cursive. “My God, I think it’s actually getting worse? Incredible, by which I mean terrible. Extraordinarily bad. Absolutely horrible. It sounded like a cat jumping off the Empire State building. Into a tragically placed food processor, if I'm any judge. Which I am.”
America raises his head mid-kiss from Russia’s jaw and shouts out, “Are you fucking kidding me? We’re in the middle of something here!”
A groan from somewhere. “Give me some light!”
The spots in Russia’s vision clear to the darkness evaporated, leaving behind a vast auditorium. They are on the stage, and at the foot of the stage sitting behind a table are Denmark, France, and England.
“What the fuck,” America says, and he and Russia look at each other and disengage, standing several steps apart with their hands stuffed in their pockets.
Denmark claps big and loud for them. It sounds pitiable and empty in the awed silence of the auditorium. “That was awesome! Stuff of legend! Inspirational!”
“Yes, I liked it,” France says, head lolling onto his arms on the table. He casts a scheming glance at England. “I thought it was nice. Very heart-felt.”
England, in turn, covers his face in disgust. “This is exactly why no one listens to you. You’re a backstabbing pornographer who thinks beheadings are nice if they sparkle enough.”
Denmark looks down the table, grinning. “What about me? Do me next?”
“Do not even get me started on you.”
“What the fuck,” America shouts as he marches downstage, “are you three doing?”
"Judging," England says, at the same time Denmark and France say, "Cockblocking."
Russia looks at the floor. The gigantic pit is also black, like the stage, and it does not appear that America has noticed it. “America,” Russia warns, but America waves him off. “I do not think you should—”
At that moment something thin and white spears between America’s feet, and Austria curves out of the pit like a scorpion. “Unless you wish to be run through by a baton, I suggest you watch where you are stepping!”
America careens backward into Russia. “Jesus, they’re coming out of the floor!”
“How many of you are out there watching?” Russia says curiously, as he props America into a standing position.
The panel of judges whisper to each other. “A hundredish?” Denmark says. “Not everyone could make it, but we have sound crews and stage crews and light crews and set designers and—”
Austria hooks an arm over the edge of the orchestra pit and looks out. “While that's all very fascinating, what exactly is the cause for these delays? All the strings escaped an hour ago when we ran out of snacks and we had to block the exit with the tuba to keep anyone else from deserting. So sorry,” he says, smiling thinly at America and Russia. “I do hope brass fanfare with timpani accompaniment is to your taste.”
“Which is the most romantic sound in the universe anyway,” says what is possibly Prussia somewhere beneath their feet.
“Well, I don’t want them to continue,” England says. He sniffs and fold his arms across his chest. “It was terrible. Artless, bland, over-done to say the least. Not at all convincing.”
“Because I wasn’t acting,” America says. “Imagine that.”
England glares. “It still made me fairly sick watching it. Like witnessing a train wreck. Like witnessing the train run over the cat who threw himself off the building.”
“It wasn’t that bad,” says France, trying to hide a giggle.
“You bastard, you’re only saying that because I said I didn’t like it!”
The lights flicker and turn off. Completely off, plunging them into darkness with not even the single ray of light on the stage.
“OOPS,” booms a magnified voice from the overhead speakers. “VE, SORRY! WE ARE EXPERIENCING TECHNICAL DIFFICULTIES!”
In the darkness, Russia feels America’s hand reach for his. “This is what we get for not ending with a bang,” America says into his ear, and even so, Russia smiles.
--
-